The Plumber Who Changed My Life, A Short Memoir
by Swordmaiden007
Summary: "But the girl, Holmes?" He shrugged his shoulders. "You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best as you can..." This wasn't one of Holmes' best moments in the canon. Whatever happened to poor Aggie? This is her take on things.
1. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

I tell you, I knew it the first moment I set eyes on him: Ralph Escott was a man who would mean a bit boiling heap of change to my life, make no mistake. Now, I admit that I am something of a book lover. Even though my wages were always rather too thin for my liking, I always scrimped to save a few extra pence for buying a cheap novel here and there. I was always partial to those lovey-dovey romances, and even scribbled a few of my late into the night, much to the teasing of the other girls I boarded with. I must say, it always kept me looking for my own knight in shining armor bloke to waltz into my life, lowly maid though I be. Well…not a lowly maid anymore, I suppose. But that will come later.

As I was saying.

I was in the kitchen when he first came, lead by Vike, that nasty old butler with the bullet scar. He came with his toolbox in his hands, looking 'round the kitchen at me and Cook and the scullery maid, Liza. I was filling a pretty blue vase with water what for setting the flowers in the drawing room and I had to crane my neck to see who it was. Liza was up to her arms in flour, but she managed to give him a big flirty smile, batting her bleeding eyelashes like a stupid cow.

You have to know, see, that any knew man what comes 'round was exciting to us girls. I knew I had my Stokes, of course, but he, the great lump, was as jealous as the devil. And frankly, I didn't like to see Liza getting so high and mighty, thinking that every new man that walks through the door was nabbed for her. So I can tell you, that when I saw this handsome plumber walking in, his eyes on Liza, I was dead set with envy. I must of turned a might shade of green with it.

As Vike took him to the sink, where the leak was, I moved over a bit, holding the vase in my hands as the butler showed him the problem. I knew I had work to do, but that thought of Liza's smile drove me mad. Pretending to busy myself with drying the vase, I listened as Vike went on about how old the silly pipes were, and how the Master was particular about repairs, and all that gammon. I dilly-dallied until Vike stalked off, leaving the new plumber rummaging through his tools.

"What you come 'round here for, then?" I asked. It was a daft question, as I had known all about the leak for weeks, but at least I got him to look at me.

"There's a nasty leak down here, what needs fixin'."

Those were the first words spoken to me by Ralph Escott, and I will never forget them. He had a great sharp chin with a small goatee, and he looked at me with the keenest grey eyes I had ever seen.

"Ah well, I'd best be lettin' you get on with your work," I said with a big sigh. "Although I was thinkin' that a night at the pub would set me up forever."

"Are yer the housemaid?"

The question seemed right queer to me. Usually, the next question was about when I would be fixing to go.

"Of course I am!" I exclaimed, hoisting my vase. "Would a scullery maid be gettin' flowers for the Master's drawing room?"

He gave me a little funny smile, showing yellowed, but at least rather straight, teeth. "Nah, I suppose not then." As he leaned over his tools again, I turned my head and stuck my tongue out at Liza, who gave me a look that could kill a daisy. Picking up a wrench, he paused to look at me before he ducked under the sink. "Now what time were ye fixin' to go to this pub?"

"Oh, Ralph!" I squealed as we wandered home. This was our third night out together. A visit to the pub every evening had become our custom, but tonight we had drunk a little more than usual. "What a sight we must be!"

He laughed next to me as we leaned on each other, each of us a bit pickled. It had been a grand night, and it felt nice to have a warm arm around my waste. I snuggled my head on his shoulder as we neared the stables, and he paused for a moment. When I looked at him, I saw he was watching the up windows.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" I asked in a singsong voice, giggling.

"Is that where that Milverton bloke sleeps?" he asked.

"What?" I looked up at him again. "Now whatcha wanna know that for?"

He tweaked my nose with his finger, smiling again. "So I knows when I can come see you. Without that bloody Milverton peerin' about."

"Gonna come see me are ya?" I poked him playfully in the ribs. "And get me off me job?"

"I'd come quiet like," he whispered, smiling into my face, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. "And come whisk yer away."

I stood up against his chest, tilting my chin up. "Where'd we go?"

"How does China sound, love? Or the West Indies?"

"Mmm, I'd like that," I sighed, leaning against him again as we resumed our walking. I closed my eyes, letting myself be staggeringly led along the cobblestone path. When I opened them again to smile at him, he was still staring at those windows, a queer keen look on his face.

"Come on now, Ralphie." I tugged him to a stop, holding onto his scruffy coat collar. "I need to tell ya somethin'."

He stopped and looked at me, but I could tell his thoughts were still on those bleedin' windows. I sidled up close, as close as I can, going in to make the catch. A grand night was all well and good, but if Stokes got wind of it, which he certainly would if Liza had her way, then I was in danger of being without a man. And I wouldn't be caught dead without one, not with that nasty pig Liza wagging her tongue in the kitchen.

Putting on all my charm, I gently touched the brim of his cap, smiling as soft as a kitten. His eyebrows got all knotted as he watched my fingers trace from his shaggy brown hair all the way down to his neck. "It's real important," I whispered shyly. "Are ya listenin'?"

"Yes." His eyes were searching my face, and I wondered for a moment if there was something wrong with him. Why was he so serious?

I stood on my tiptoes, getting close to his ear. "I think I'm in love," I breathed, wrapping my arms around him. His arms tightened around me just a bit, but rather stiff like, like he didn't know what to do. So I made it easy for him.

I leaned back a little so that he could see my face, closing my eyes, my mouth tilted up towards his, waiting for his lips to touch mine.

But they never came.

My heart twisting, I opened my eyes. There was such a stark scared look that was on his face, it made me all hot with blush and anger. I pushed him away, my eyes smarting with embarrassed tears as I began to stomp away, my fists clenched tight.

"And if ya don't know how to treat a girl, then I don' want ya!" I said between clenched teeth, my heart pounding. I might have had a way with men, but it didn't mean I wasn't young and still had my pride.

"Aggie! Aggie, me girl!" I could hear his footsteps behind me, but I didn't look at him, quickening my step.

He caught up with me fast, grabbing my wrist. "Here now, Aggie-"

"Get away, you!" I snapped at him, yanking my arm away. "I give ya my heart, and all ya do is stare?" I stopped and cried at him, them tears falling like rain down my hot cheeks. "What kinda man are ya?"

He took my hand all soft-like, rubbing my fingers in between his. "Aggie, Aggie dearest," he murmured, a little smile in his voice. I kept my head down, the tears still coming, but not letting on that this was what I wanted him to do. "Aggie, don't make a man break his 'eart over yer so. Yer wants me to say it aloud? Alright then. I loves yer."

I sniffled a bit, looking up at him through my eyelashes. "Do ya mean it, Ralph?"

He gently pulled my arm, bringing me close to him again, touching the back of my hair. "Aye. I do."

"Then kiss me."

I looked at him bold this time, waiting, my chin up towards his. He hesitated, staring down at me with a flicker of that odd fear, but slowly leaned down and carefully kissed me. It was quick and soft, but I didn't care. I pulled away from him, giggling.

"There now, ya chump," I laughed, lightly punching him on the shoulder. "That weren't too bad, was it?"

He blinked slowly, as if he was waking up out of a dream. He gazed down at me for a moment, our eyes holding each other. Then, shaking himself, he took my shoulder firmly, and we kept walking. "Now c'mon, Aggie girl. Let's get yer home before we're found out."

I let myself be led on, but my heart was all aglow and fluttery like a bird. If he kissed me, he liked me. If he liked me, well then…the life of Agnes Morton was worth living.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 2

"And where were you last night, Aggie Morton?"

I stopped my humming as I brought in the tea tray, frozen by the ugly scowl of Liza, her hands on her wide hips. I turned up my nose at her, brushing past her like she was nothing but a mangy cat. "Why should you care?"

"Because-" she followed quick up behind me, nearly tripping on the back of my skirts. "-I heard yer comin' in last night at an undecent time."

"Undecent?" I demanded as I put the tray down with a rattle. I turned on her. "As if yer weren't the worst hussy in these parts," I hissed into her face. "And both you and I know it!"

Her startled face turned all red, her mouth open like a fish. I whisked away again, feeing very pleased with myself. But as soon as I thought of it, my heart nearly turned to ice. If Liza were going to tell Vike about it…who knows what would happen? Thoughts of Aggie running around London with out a job began to play through my head, and I made a decision right then and there.

I had seen Ralph that morning, and had already arranged for us to meet in the back garden after lunch, away from prying eyes. I would have to _make_ him ask me. That was the only way. I would keep my post, Liza would turn green with envy, and I'd still have my man.

I smiled to myself as I helped gather dishes. Who said a girl can't propose?

Lunch seemed to take two times as long as it usually does. Every time I passed the dining room, Mr. Milverton seemed to be lingering over his soup, sipping it a might too daintily if you ask me than it becomes a gentleman. I was eager to see Ralph, and as soon as the last dish was cleared, I was off to the garden. I hiked up my skirts as I nearly ran there, the wind blowing past my cheeks, making them as pink as apples.

I slowed as I got nearer, seeing him standing there, staring up at those windows again, smoking a cigarette. Keeping my skirts in my hands so they wouldn't brush the grass, I tiptoed near him, a laugh just bubbling behind my lips. I could hear him muttering something to himself, lost in some thoughts of his own, perhaps about those windows.

"Gotcha!" I cried, grabbing his shoulders from behind.

He whirled around, looking startled but not for long as he suddenly swept me up in his arms, landing a full kiss on my mouth. I was surprised, and let him, closing my eyes, but he quickly pulled away. It was quicker than I had wanted, but well…if he didn't like long kisses, what was a girl to do?

"Aggie!" he said happily, looking me up and down at arms' length. "You look prettier than ever!"

I laughed. "Oh you bounder," I chided. "I haven't changed a mite since you saw me last."

"Aw, then it's only the sunshine were makes yer bright'r th'n ever!" he declared. "Now Aggie, I've got a very important question I needs to ask yer," he said as he led me further into the garden.

"What's that, Ralph?"

He got all secret like as he lowered his voice, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I have a friend, see? He knows about Milverton's little game, how he likes to play with the toffs, makin' them sweat over ol' letters and such."

I nodded, bored. Everyone knew about the Master's cruel ways. It made for a lot of gossip in the servant's hall, but what did I care? As long as I kept my post, I didn't care whether the Master lived or died.

"Well this friend of mine, he made a bet with me that Milverton kept those crummy letters in his own room. But I says to him, 'Naw, don't be daft! He keeps 'em in a strong box in his parlor, so he can paw 'em when he pleases!'"

I stopped him, nudging him with my elbow. "Oh Ralphie, don't tell me ya made a big bet?"

His eyes got all wide as he looked down at me. "Well…I had thought I were right, Aggie, and that I'd ask yer."

I laughed at him, swinging my hand in his. "Then you'd better empty your pockets, Escott!"

"Yer mean he keeps 'em in his room?" Ralph asked, looking sheepish.

I giggled and took his cap off his head, putting it on my own. "Well at least you got the strongbox part right." I ran ahead of him a bit. "If you catch me, I'll pay for the drinks tonight!"

With a laugh, he romped after me. I squealed and ran, one hand keeping his hat on my head, grabbing my skirts in the other. His legs were longer than mine, though, and he caught up with me fast, grabbing my waist. I took a trip and tumbled, both of us falling onto the green grass with a silly cry. Rolling onto our backs, we laughed breathlessly. For a moment, we lay there, the shade of the tree above us cooling our cheeks as we caught our breath. I flopped his hat onto his heaving chest.

"You can keep your hat," I said. "For ya won't be buyin' another one for some time."

Propping himself up on his elbow, he looked down at me. "Now Aggie, tell me true now." He looked all mopy again. "Is it a big safebox?"

I screwed up my face. "It's sort of big…"

"Do clean in his room?"

I shrugged, tugging at a bit of grass. "Sometimes."

"Where is this box of his?"

I paused, looking up at him all puzzled. "Now why are ya asking me such daft questions, Ralph Escott? How's this goin' to get your money back?"

"Maybe I just wisht he was wrong, and I was right." He rubbed his long finger in the dirt. He looked so pathetic, the poor mite, I wanted to cheer him up a bit. And I had a bigger game to play.

"Maybe I'll tell you…" I said, sitting up on my elbows, leaning towards him. "…if you ask me to marry ya."

He looked up at me for a moment, his finger paused in its circling the dust. It was an odd way to broach the subject, I knew, but at least I had his attention. "What was that?"

"I said…" I scooted closer to him. "I'll tell you if you ask me to marry you."

He looked deeply into my eyes, very quiet all of a sudden. "Truly, Aggie?" He seemed as solemn as an undertaker.

I smiled lightly. "Truly!"

"Alright then." He took my chin in his fingers. "Will you marry me, Aggie Morton?"

"What a silly question to ask!" I said in mock tones. "Of course I will, you big oaf!"

And that was that. After some more banter nonsense and some chitchat about the Master's strongbox, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek (at my bidding only), and went onto his work. I went back to the kitchen, as happy as a lark. I fairly skipped into the kitchen, telling Liza in her face that she was nothing but a stuffed cow. When the kitchen heard the news of my engagement, there was a general guffaw about the suddenness of it all, but Cook is a grand heart, and passed around a glass of wine to celebrate. I began to daydream about the wedding, thinking how my blue cotton frock would look nice with a bit of lace at the collar for the occasion. Liza cried and pouted, even though she upped and got herself engaged to my Stokes the next week out of spite. Funny thing, I had never really thought of marrying, but it seemed a right enough. I liked Ralph immensely, and everyone needed a plumber now and then, didn't they? I hoped he wouldn't lack business when we started having little tykes and maybe a little house of our own.

I saw Ralph once more the next morning. He smiled a bit when he saw me, but when I began to ask him about the wedding plans, he told me that he had to get quick to work or he'd be laid off, or at least that's what Vike had threatened. I left him to run off with his tools in hand, his long gangly legs making their way right quick over the garden grass.

I never saw Ralph again.

That very evening, there was a great fuss. Gunshots were heard, and Mr. Milverton was found dead in his own room, a great pile of papers being burned in the hearth. The strongbox was open, emptied of its contents. The police were brought in, we all had to answer questions, and then were released. All of us girls whimpered and wondered who on earth could have done such a thing. Even though I had said I hadn't cared if he lived or died, I suddenly felt afraid that perhaps such a person might still be stalking the house. And another thought occurred to me: where was Ralph in all this? I hadn't seen him in all the commotion, and I hoped he was all right. That very next morning, I went to our spot in the back garden, waiting for him to come find me, to hug me and tell me that it would all be alright, that even though we would all be dismissed, that he'd still take care of me and that I wouldn't have to worry about a thing.

But he never came.


	3. Chapter 3

**That's right, folks! There's more to the story! It'll be winding down soon, but this is the juicy part…**

Chapter 3

The next few weeks were tough ones. Having been dismissed after the Master's death, I had no choice but to go back into the city to stay with my aunt until I found some other place to work. I never heard from Ralph, and so I had decided to shrug him off like an old shawl from my mind, even though my eyes watered every morning at the thought of him. I had no idea what had sent him running, but I hoped he was well. Maybe had hadn't been able to pay that friend of his. Or maybe the whole business with Milverton had scared him off.

Whatever it was, my heart still ached a bit as I trudged through the city, on my way to an interview with an old lady who wanted a cleaning maid. I never liked old ladies, and I didn't like the thought of working for one now. But it had been over two weeks since I had come to stay with my aunt, and I still had no job. She was getting antsy at me, having two mouths to feed instead of just herself, and so I knew I had better try and make my face look as cheerful as possible if I wanted to nab this position. No one wants a sour maid, I told myself, and lifted my head as I walked along, deciding to face the world with a grin on my face. That was the way Agnes Morton took on life.

My thoughts wandering on how I was going to curtsey before this potential employer, I froze in my tracks when I saw a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye, just a few steps in front of me. He was coming down the steps of a flat, dressed in a black coat and top hat. A cane was in his gloved hand, and he was talking to two men on either side of him. I looked up at the numbers: 221B. I looked at the street name: Baker Street.

I looked back at him, edging a little closer. That long, strong chin, clean shaven now. Those wiry arms and gangly legs. That thin mouth.

My heart was pounding as I stood glued to the sidewalk, my shawl gripped around my shoulders tightly. All of three of them were walking towards me, deep in their conversation. I couldn't move, could hardly breathe as I continued to stare.

"…and so, Lestrade, it is better to let the case lie," he was saying, his accent so fine and rich. "He's dead, the documents are gone, and that's the end of it. London is rid of one of its more disgusting criminals."

Suddenly, my heart flamed up within me as a rush of memories came back. All of those talks together, that promise of marriage…all dirt now. If this was truly who I thought it was, then he was going to have face the consequences, in front of his friends no less.

Thank goodness I subscribed to the Strand magazine.

"Well then, Ralph Escott," I declared loudly.

All three of them froze. They were within an arms' reach of me. I stared him down, frozen between the two others, those keen grey eyes looking momentarily shocked, dumbfounded, and (serves him right!) stark scared.

One of them, a thin, weasel-looking gent, gaped at me. "Who?" he asked.

I nodded. "Right there, sir. That tall one. He's Ralph Escott. I'd know his face anywhere, even with his swell clothes on."

"My dear young lady," the other man said. He was shorter than all of them, and a little round in the middle. "I think you must be mistaken." I caught his eye, and noticed he looked a bit nervous. Oh, so he was in on it too.

"Watson, Lestrade, let me handle this," he said. He had made his face look calm and cool as he looked directly at me. I stared right back. "Now, miss, what can I do for you? Are you looking for this Ralph Escott? If so, I may be able to find him for you. I _am _a consulting detective." He was putting on such a bluff that I boiled a little inside.

"A detective are you?" I jeered, not giving him an inch. "Well, if you're a detective, then I'll have you know that this here Escott promised he'd marry me. And now that's he's off and run away, well then! That there's what's called a breech of promise, right?"

I fairly wanted to laugh when I saw the blood drain from his face, but I bit my lip, playing it out just a bit more.

"And what's more, there was a hullabaloo back where I was working," I went on. "Up at Milverton's place."

"Milverton?" The little weasel one looked interested. "You worked there, you say?"

I nodded. "Aye, I did. And all of the servants got lined up and asked a bunch of questions. But where was Ralph? I wondered. They should be asking him questions! Why, only the day before, hadn't he been asking me about where the Master kept his strongbox full of letters? And if knew where in his room that box was? I hadn't thought of it only until the next day when I didn't see him around. I waited and waited for him in the garden. I sat and cried my eyes out with grief, so afeared I was with the whole mess. And then I gets to thinking about it…and since they haven't caught the bounder who killed the Master, well then…I have to wonder about my Ralph."

The weasel man got out a pencil and paper from his pocket. "This Ralph Escott. What can you tell me about him? What does he look like?"

"Lestrade, I really don't think-" he interrupted.

"I want to hear what the girl has to say, Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade said irritably. "You may be satisfied with letting criminals waltz about London, but the Yard still has some cleaning up to do." He looked back at me.

"Well he's tall, long, gangly. Has a sharp chin, and a great beak of a nose. Beady grey eyes. Rather ugly bounder, really, but he was good at kissing." Mr. Holmes winced noticeably, and I chuckled. "In fact, sir, he looks a bit like Mr. Holmes here. That's why I thought for a moment that it was my Ralph. I guess it was just the sun in my eyes."

Mr. Lestrade was scribbling all of this down. "And you say he disappeared?"

"Right after that night Milverton was murdered. He was a plumber, you see. Had just come to start working only a few days before. Suspicious, eh?"

He didn't answer me, but kept scribbling. The other one, I guess that was Dr. Watson, looked a tad skittish as he shifted back and forth on his feet. Mr. Holmes, he just kept staring at me, his eyes difficult to read.

"Inspector, if I might have a word with this young woman inside," he said suddenly. "It will just take a moment."

The weasel man looked up at him. "Well…yes, I suppose if you must. But we should get back to the station, now that we have a new suspect."

"Yes, yes," Mr. Holmes muttered as he gestured for me to follow him inside the flat. I trotted behind him, feeling elated with my hilarious revenge and slightly curious as to what he wanted to say. As soon as the door shut behind us, he turned to me, his pale gaunt face suddenly dropped of all its pride. In fact, he looked so ashamed, it took me by surprise.

"Listen…Miss Morton…" he began slowly, as if every word pained him. It felt odd to hear my name in such proper tones come from him in that fine voice. "Perhaps what I did…it was not right by you. I made you promises I didn't intend to keep. And I truly am…" He cleared his throat, looking me straight in the eyes. "…sorry."

I stood silent for a moment, and I'm sure my eyes were as big as saucers. This I hadn't expected.

"If there is anything I could do for you," he went on. "The please, let me know, and I shall try and repay you for what I did."

Now I admit, I read those Sherlock Holmes stories as avidly as everyone else in England did, and never before had I heard of Sherlock Holmes saying such a thing to anyone. So don't blame me that for a moment, I didn't know what to say.

I laughed lightly, perhaps a little nervously. "Well, all I really wanted to was to jolly you a bit," I admitted, smiling. "After you left…" I stared at him again, taking in his finery as he looked at me in distress. All I could think about was how I had kissed Sherlock Holmes and what my aunt would say, and I laughed out loud, nearly doubled over. Any bit of heartache or disappointment I had felt disappeared in an instant.

"I'm sorry," I panted, wiping away the tear that had squeezed out of my eye. "I'm bein' rude. But-" I looked at him seriously, pointing at him with an accusing finger. "There is something you could help me with."

He stood at attention. "And what would that be?"

"I need a job. A good one. After you somehow finagled Milverton's death, I'm without a post. And it's your fault," I added teasingly, nearly laughing again. "I was just on my way to talk to a nasty old lady who had wanted a maid, and now…" I looked at the clock. "Well, it's your fault for me losing that job as well!"

I still spoke lightly and with a smile, but he took it seriously. "Very well. I shall instruct Mrs. Hudson to give you some tea as you write down your information. You shall have a job within the week. I give you my word."

"Alright then. We'll shake hands on it, call it quits." I held out my hand, and he took it, shaking it firmly. As he pulled away, I held on. "And about that breech of promise case…"

He looked as if he would faint nigh dead away, but when I laughed again, he relaxed and took his hand emphatically away from mine. "Yes, well…" He adjusted his gloves, readying to go out again as he walked towards the door. He opened it for me, but paused, giving me a strange look with narrowed eyes.

"Out of curiosity," he asked. "Do you _want _to be a just a parlor maid?"

Now it was my turn to be suspicious. What kind of question was this?

"Well, it's what I've always done," I said slowly. "And…it's a livin', I suppose…"

He glanced down at my hand. "But you do enjoy reading and writing. In your spare time."

My mouth dropped open. Even as Ralph Escott, I had never told him any such thing of my little hobbies.

"How did-"

He waved my question aside. "The fact that you knew who I was meant that you read Watson's little stories in the Strand. Also, during our…brief interlude-" A faint spot of color stained his pale cheeks. "I noticed that you often carried a book in your apron pocket. You have ink stains on your right ring and middle finger, indicating that you do more writing than the average person, and so writing for leisure was the most logical, given your tastes in fictional literature." He looked at me pointedly. "Two attributes that are not commonly found in a parlor maid."

Well, what could I say to that? I continued to gape, my mind a complete muddle as to what he was driving at.

"And so I'll ask again, but I'll reframe the question. Do you just want to be a parlor maid? Or would you prefer some reading and writing to be involved as part of your occupation?"

At these words, I finally found my tongue and blurted rather eagerly, "Of course I would! Do you think dustin' and shinin' all the time is my idea of fun?"

Mr. Holmes smiled a bit at this. "No, I don't suppose it would be. That said, I do believe I already know of a job prospect that might interest you."

I perked up at this. "One with readin' and writin'?"

He nodded. "Intermittently. With some regular parlor cleaning involved as well, I should think. Do you enjoy the countryside?"

Images of running in lazy green fields, quaint cottages, and clear blue sky filled my delighted head, my heart pounding more with excitement with each passing moment. I nodded vigorously.

He regarded me, probably looking at how eager I was. Glancing out the door for moment, he looked towards Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade, who were still waiting on the curb. He closed the door a bit, leaning forward towards me. I did likewise, wondering what would need to be so quiet like.

"My mother," he began in a hushed tone. "Lives in Gloucester, in an old country estate-"

"You have a mother?" The question sort of popped out, and it was a right silly one. Of course he had a mother. Somehow it was just hard to imagine Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, writing weekly letters to his old mum cooped up in some grand house.

He almost grimaced at my question, like he was sorry he had brought it up. "I do indeed. But my mother is not the most…approving of my profession. She and I are on cordial terms at best. She had always pinned her hopes on me becoming a doctor."

"But what does this have to do with me?" I asked. I admit I was getting a little impatient with all this beating around the bush. The idea of galavanting on dusty country lanes was almost too much.

"In our last correspondence," he continued. "She indicated that her eyesight is growing steadily worse. She desires to write her memoirs about her life, however. She had initially asked me to send Watson to help her write them, but-" Again, he paused, glancing out the door. "But my mother is…how should I say?...very blunt. And concerning some of the narratives she will be discussing in her memoirs, I'm not sure that Watson…"

He was beating about the bush again, and I gave a little huffy sigh.

"Let me just say that my mother seems to prefer Watson above all other male individuals, praising him as the highest form of the English gentleman, " he went on quickly. "And as such, would not hesitate to tell him some of my…more…embarrassing family moments."

"But you don't mind me hearing them?"

"My dear girl, you are not Watson, the man in whom I place my utmost trust when he writes those silly narratives of his, which, although superfluous, I cannot deny have gained my profession some public recognition. But I'm rather afraid that a few moments with my mother will…sully his writing perspective. Thus said, if you are interested, I will send a letter to my mother immediately, recommending you as both a parlor maid and sort of secretary by which she dictates her memoirs at her leisure."

It was almost all too perfect. A job in the country. Not just a parlor maid anymore…but a secretary as well. _Secretary. _Ooh, it had a fancy ring to it. Agnes Morton would be a secretary.

I was staring dreamily off into space, right above Mr. Holmes' shoulder, when he asked, "If my mother agrees, will you take the job?"

I let out a long, happy breath, smiling broadly at him. "With all my heart."

**Still more to come!!**


	4. Chapter 4

**As promised, here is another segment. I have an epilogue in store, so hang tight! (It's finals week, but I'll try and get it out as soon as I can!)**

Chapter 4

It was within a matter of three weeks that I found myself sitting at a desk as the early morning sunlight poured through the parlor windows, my pen working furiously as I scribbled out the many memories of Lady Genevieve Vernet Holmes.

Let me say, this job was nigh a dream come true. Sure, I did a bit of cleaning here and there, but the main parlor maid was a sweet girl named Mary. She and I became fast friends, staying up longing into the wee hours giggling until we were breathless.

What I loved the most, though, was Lady Genevieve herself. As Mr. Holmes as mentioned, she was quite blunt. The first thing she said to me when I shuffled into her parlor, dropping a twisted curtsy, she looked me up and down and said, "Well, your eyes a bit too close together, aren't they, dear?"

I liked her immediately. At first, when I took the job, I realized after I had said "yes" that I wondered if I had made a mistake. I was to be employed by another old lady, who would run me around with her shrill voice in my poor ears 'til they fell off.

But a nasty old lady, she definitely was not. She as one of those fancy artistic types, who spent her time painting flowers and plates and such, with such blooming detail that it nearly took my breath away the first time I dusted her small gallery in the main hall.

But my main work with Lady Genevieve, who would come to the parlor exactly at seven every morning, smile at me and pat my shoulder all chummy-like, and then immediately set to droning off the story of her life as she drank her tea. Her life, thank goodness, had been an interesting one, and I never grew bored.

She was going on steadily one morning, telling about her young life at the old house, when a certain name popped up.

"…there was a certain plumber that I took a fancy to," she was saying, looking dreamily out the window. "He was poor, but quite handsome, with a little goatee on his chin. He would smile at me every time he was called in to fix the pipes, and once brought me a bouquet of flowers, secretly of course. I never forgot him. Ralph Escott was his name."

My pen froze, and I think I gave a little choking sound in the back of my throat like a toad. She stopped suddenly, her keen grey eyes, so much like her son's, looking funny at me.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked. "You look as pale as that scarecrow son of mine. And he always _is_ pale, with such a profession as his." This last part came as a mutter. Her dislike for his job came up often.

"I...Ralph Escott, you say?" I stammered, uncertain if I heard right.

"Yes. Yes, that was his name."

Ralph Escott. The handsome plumber of his mother's young days. Of all the names to borrow, that bugger would choose that one.

I couldn't help it. I began to laugh, giddily almost, at how funny it all was.

"A plumber!" I panted in between laughs, gripping my aching sides. "Ralph Escott the plumber!"

Lady Genevieve was up on her feet now. "Are you quite alright, Agnes?" she asked again, worried this time. "This is…quite peculiar."

I waved my hand at her as I tried to catch my breath. "Y-yes, my lady," I said, trying to stop giggling. "I'm sorry. I'll stop now. Please." I gave one last chuckle. "Keep going."

She sat down slowly, staring at me as if I was as mad as a hatter. "Very well," she said. "But if these laughing fits continue, I might consult a doctor for you. They cannot be healthy."

I took a deep breath, getting out a new sheet of paper. "No, my lady."

"I could even write to Dr. Watson about it." She sat up straighter, a smile lighting her face. "_What_ a dear man he is! He's a doctor, a most honorable calling, much more so than any consulting detective's work is" Her mouth screwed up as if she had bitten into a lemon. "_And _a very competent writer, too, especially compared to those dull letters I receive from Sherlock each week. Dr. Watson sent me the most charming note the other day, telling me about his latest story in the Strand…"

I stopped listening then as she began to warm up to her favorite subject, my mind wandering again to the plumber of the old days. Ralph Escott, the man who, sort of, changed my life forever. Without him, I thought, I wouldn't even have this job! I stared down at the blank piece of paper on the desk, playing with the shiny pen in my fingers, an idea beginning to tickle my brain.

"She had her Escott," I murmured real soft to myself. "I had mine."

And I knew right then that I had some memoirs of my own to write.


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

"And what happened then?

Lady Genevieve let out another laugh, nearly spitting out her mouthful of tea. "Then he-" she stopped and laughed again, nearly bending over double. "He -he…oh my." She wiped at the drops of tea she had spilled onto her dress. "The poor boy, there was nothing for him to do but to just go up there and sing! Oh, the look on his face!" She burst out into another bit of giggling, covering her mouth with her hand. "I had scolded Mycroft, of course. He was always picking on his young brother, and he knew that Sherlock was so sensitive about such things."

"And so his trousers?..."

She nodded her head. "Entirely soaked. Mycroft had managed to spill a whole cup of hot tea onto the front of them, in a most unfortunate area. But when the headmaster called him up for his performance, what could he do? Mycroft tittered and pointed the whole time, and I tried to make him stop, but I was having a hard time keeping a straight face myself." She sighed, a light smile on her face as she leaned back into her chair. "Oh, it was funny."

I smiled as well, not missing a single word. We had been going on like this for a few hours now. I was finding out what Mr. Holmes meant by "embarrassing family moments." Agnes Morton was learning more about his childhood in a morning than old Dr. Watson knew after five years!

But Lady Genevieve still wasn't finished. "It wouldn't have been so bad if Sherlock hadn't had such a bedwetting problem…"

o-o-o

Sherlock Holmes held the letter in his between his fingers, his smoldering pipe sticking from the side of his mouth. The penmanship was definitely feminine. It bore traces of commonness, but there was a slight measure of elegance in the slanting of the t's and p's. The paper was of a heavy type, fine and smooth in texture. The address was from his mother's estate, but it certainly wasn't her handwriting. Precursory inspection completed, he glanced down at the signature.

_Agnes Morton_.

A strange knotting in his stomach caused him to desire to sit down in the nearest chair. It had been nearly six months, and while he hadn't entirely forgotten, he had…well, he'd been _trying_ to forget. But sometimes, when he was alone, he would remember that feeling of her lips, the warmth of her leaning against him…didn't she play with his hair once?

Shaking his head firmly, he cleared his throat, focusing on the contents of the letter.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_ I have sent you a first copy of your mother's memoir manuscript for you perusal (See? I've learned a lot of new words!) I thought that you might want to take a look at it yourself. There are more than a few stories about you and your brother, some that I thought would amuse or alarm you._

_Also enclosed is my own first published work. I thought you might want to keep a copy for yourself, since you're a main character. _

_ Oh, and the publisher says not to worry about any embarrassment either of these might cause you. He doesn't think it will sell much further than Gloucester, among the locals. _

_ Most sincerely._

_ Agnes Morton_

Amuse or alarm? Only beginning to imagine what his mother must have said, he was already alarmed. Quickly setting aside the letter, he grabbed the brown paper package that had accompanied it, ripping it open. He took out the thick pile of manuscript papers, smelling of newly set ink, shuffling through them quickly. He stopped when his eyes lit on the words "entirely soaked," his heart thudding a bit.

"Good God," he muttered.

Bending over the manuscript, he read through several pages of nothing but his most painfully humiliating memories. He moaned slightly, letting the pages drop to the floor, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. He could never show his face in Gloucester again.

"Morning, Holmes!"

He sat up quickly as Watson entered the sitting room, quickly shoving the papers under his chair with his heel. "Ah, Watson…here for lunch?"

"Just so, old boy," Watson replied, setting his medical bag on the chair. "Mrs. Hudson is making-" He paused when he looked up at Holmes' face. "Are you feeling alright, Holmes? Your face looks unnaturally flushed."

Holmes shook his head, making his voice light. "Perfectly fine. Probably just in need of some sustenance."

"What's that?" Watson pointed to the pile of ripped wrapping paper that lay on the parlor table.

"Ah…nothing of interest-" Holmes made a move to grab paper, but Watson was too quick, smiling as he plucked a thin, paperbacked volume from the midst of the pile.

"Come now," he chuckled, looking down at it. "Why would you want to hide such a cheap local periodical? From Gloucester, no less?"

Holmes looked away, deciding to feign disinterest as he stood and went to the mantle, refilling his pipe from the Persian slipper.

"Dear me."

Holmes turned sharply, seeing Watson's eyebrows knotting as he stared down at the opened periodical in his hand.

"Holmes, did you see this?"

He couldn't hold the stony countenance any longer. He bounded over to Watson, reading over his shoulder.

"The Plumber Who Changed My Life, A Short Memoir," Holmes read softly aloud. "By Agnes Morton."

He let his eyes skim the page, the full details of the episode printed on paper, to be distributed to the local residents of Gloucester and perhaps countless others. He, Sherlock Holmes, would be pinned as a womanizer.

"It really is ridiculous!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into his chair with a huff. "I told the girl I was sorry, I got her a job, and then she has the audacity to publish such a thing!"

Watson slowly sat down in the chair opposite, still reading the periodical in his hand. "Did you _really_ kiss her, Holmes?"

Holmes could feel his cheeks grow hot. "That is not the point, Watson! The point is that my reputation is potentially at stake!" He threw his hands up in the air. "Who knows what people may think of me now?"

He looked expectantly at Watson, waiting for some words of sympathy or agreement. But his friend's face had grown solemn, frowning as he stared at the carpet.

"It was a low thing you did," he said at last, quietly. "Breaking a young woman's heart like that. So coldly."

Well, what could he say to that? Holmes let out a small sigh, glancing down at the bundle of papers underneath the chair. He reached over and picked them up, straightening them.

"You are right, Watson. It was wrong of me, and I am deeply repentant for it. But, she has had her revenge here," He nodded at the periodical. "And elsewhere."

Watson looked strangely at him as he took the manuscript from Holmes' hand.

Holmes tipped his chin. "Turn to page forty seven."

He waited as he leaned his head back against the chair. After a few moments, a loud burst of laughter erupted from Watson's lips. He looked up to see the doctor vibrating with deep, silent laughter. His face red with mirth, Watson pointed at the paper.

"Holmes, you-you-" And he burst into another fit of hilarity, tears running down his cheeks.

"Yes, yes, laugh all you want," Holmes said, playing with a loose thread on the chair arm. "But rest assured, if I hear about this from Mrs. Hudson, our friendship will be at an abrupt end."

"Alright, alright," Watson panted, holding his hand out placatingly. "Not a word. And we shall move on from this Agnes Morton incident, as it seems that she has recovered."

"Yes, we shall move on," murmured Holmes as he stared into the fire, suddenly remembering her sparkling blue eyes. "It's all behind me now."

**Thanks for reading, guys! All of the reviews were so encouraging!**

** Oh, I'm currently working on a story about Mrs. Hudson...if anyone is interested...**


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